Thur . 18 . — One who was big with child, in a high fever, and almost wasted away with a violent cough, desired to receive the holy communion before she died. At the hour of her receiving she began to recover, and in a few days was entirely out of danger.

We sailed from Cowes, and in the afternoon passed the Needles. Here the ragged rocks, with the waves dashing and foaming at the foot of them, and the white side of the island rising to such a height, perpendicular from the beach, gave a strong idea of “Him that spanneth the heavens, and holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand!”

Today I spoke closely on the head of religion, to one I had talked with once or twice before. Afterwards she said, with many tears, “My mother died when I was but ten years old. Some of her last words were, ‘Child, fear God; and though you lose me, you shall never want a friend.’ I have now found a friend when I most wanted and least expected one.”

From this day to the fourteenth, being in the Bay of Biscay, the sea was very rough. Mr. Delamotte and many others were more sick than ever; Mr. Ingham, a little; I, not at all. But the fourteenth being a calm day, most of the sick were cured at once.

Fri. 21 . — One recovering from a dangerous illness desired to be instructed in the nature of the Lord’s supper. I thought it concerned her to be first instructed in the nature of Christianity; and, accordingly, fixed an hour a day to read with her in Mr. Law’s Treatise on Christian Perfection.

Thur. 20 . — We fell down into Yarmouth road, but the next day were forced back into Cowes. During our stay here there were several storms; in one of which two ships in Yarmouth road were lost.

The continuance of the contrary winds gave my brother an opportunity of complying with the desire of the Minister of Cowes, and preaching there three or four times. The poor people flocked together in great numbers.

We distributed a few little books among the more serious of them, which they received with all possible expressions of thankfulness.

Sun. 16 . — Thomas Hird, and Grace his wife, with their children, Mark, aged twenty-one, and Phebe, about seventeen, late Quakers, were, at their often-repeated desire, and after careful instruction, admitted to baptism.

We came to St. Helen’s harbor, and the next day into Cowes road. The wind was fair, but we waited for the man-of-war which was to sail with us. This was a happy opportunity of instructing our fellow-travelers. May He whose seed we sow, give it the increase!

We sailed out of the Downs. At eleven at night I was waked by a great noise. I soon found there was no danger. But the bare apprehension of it gave me a lively conviction what manner of men those ought to be who are every moment on the brink of eternity.

Fri. 24 . — Having a rolling sea, most of the passengers found the effects of it. Mr. Delamotte was exceeding sick for several days; Mr. Ingham, for about half an hour. My brother’s head ached much. Hitherto it hath pleased God, the sea has not disordered me at all; nor have I been hindered one quarter of an hour from reading, writing, composing, or doing any business I could have done on shore.

During our stay in the Downs, some or other of us went, as often as we had opportunity, on board the ship that sailed in company with us, where also many were glad to join in prayer and hearing, the word.

We sailed from Gravesend. When we were past about half the Goodwin Sands, the wind suddenly failed. Had the calm continued till ebb, the ship had probably been lost. But the gale sprang up again in an hour, and carried us into the Downs.

We now began to be a little regular. Our common way of living was this: From four in the morning till five each of us used private prayer. From five to seven we read the Bible together, carefully comparing it (that we might not lean to our own understandings) with the writings of the earliest ages. At seven we breakfasted. At eight were the public prayers. From nine to twelve I usually learned German, and Mr. Delamotte, Greek. My brother wrote sermons, and Mr. Ingham instructed the children. At twelve we met to give an account of one another what we had done since our last meeting, and what we designed to do before our next. About one we dined.

The time from dinner to four we spent in reading to those whom each of us had taken in charge, or in speaking to them severally, as need required. At four were the evening prayers; when either the second lesson was explained (as it always was in the morning), or the children were catechized and instructed before the congregation. From five to six we again used private prayer. From six to seven I read in our cabin to two or three of the passengers (of whom there were about eighty English on board), and each of my brethren to a few more in theirs.

At seven I joined with the Germans in their public service, while Mr. Ingham was reading between the decks to as many as desired to hear. At eight we met again to exhort and instruct one another. Between nine and ten we went to bed, where neither the roaring of the sea nor the motion of the ship could take away the refreshing sleep which God gave us.

Believing the denying ourselves, even in the smallest instances, might, by the blessing of God, be helpful to us, we wholly left off the use of flesh and wine and confined ourselves to vegetables food—chiefly rice and biscuit.

I began to learn German in order to converse with the Germans, six-and-twenty of whom we had on board. On Sunday, the weather being fair and calm, we had the morning service on quarterdeck. I now first preached extempore and then administered the Lord’s Supper to six or seven communicants.

DEAR BROTHER, -- I presented Job to the Queen on Sun­day, and had many good words and smiles. [A folio volume in Latin, entitled Dissertationes in Librum Jobi, by his father, and dedicated by per­mission to Queen Caroline. John Wesley presented a copy to her Majesty on Oct. 12, 1735. Dr. Clarke (Wesley Family, i. 330) says that Wesley told him that when he was introduced the Queen was romp­ing with her maids of honor. She stopped her play, heard him gra­ciously, and when he presented the book on bended knee she looked at the outside, said ' It is very prettily bound,' and laid it down in a window without opening a leaf. He rose, bowed, and retired. The Queen bowed, smiled, spoke several kind words, and immediately resumed her sport.] Out of what is due to me on that account, I beg you would first pay yourself what I owe you; and if I live till spring, I can then direct what I would have done with the remainder.

The uncertainty of my having another opportunity to tell you my thoughts in this life obliges me to tell you what I have often thought of, and that in as few and plain words as I can. Elegance of style is not to be weighed against purity of heart; purity both from the lusts of the flesh, the lusts of the eye, and the pride of life. Therefore whatever has any tendency to impair that purity is not to be tolerated, much less recom­mended, for the sake of that elegance. But of this sort (I speak not from the reason of the thing only, nor from my single experience) are the most of the classics usually read in great schools; many of them tending to inflame the lusts of the flesh (besides Ovid, Virgil's Aeneid, and Terence's Eunuch), and more to feed the lust of the eye and the pride of life. I beseech you, therefore, by the mercies of God, who would have us holy, as He is holy, that you banish all such poison from your school; that you introduce in their place such Christian authors as will work together with you in building up your flock in the knowledge and love of God. For assure yourself, dear brother, you are even now called to the convert­ing of heathens as well as I.

So many souls are committed to your charge by God, to be prepared for a happy eternity. You are to instruct them, not only in the beggarly elements of Greek and Latin, but much more in the gospel. You are to labor with all your might to convince them that Christianity is not a negation or an external thing, but a new heart, a mind conformed to that of Christ, ' faith working by love.'We recommend you and yours to God. Pray for us. -- I am

Mr. Benjamin Ingham, of Queen College, Oxford; Mr. Charles Delamotte, son of a merchant, in London, who had offered himself some days before; my brother, Charles Wesley, and myself, took boat for Gravesend, in order to embark for Georgia. Our end in leaving our native country was not to avoid want (God having given us plenty of temporal blessings) nor to gain the dung or dross of riches or honor; but singly this — to save our souls; to live wholly to the glory of God. In the afternoon we found the “Simmonds” off Gravesend and immediately went on board.

DEAR SIR, -- I have been hitherto unwilling to mention the grounds of my design of embarking for Georgia, for two reasons,---one, because they were such as I know few men would judge to be of any weight: the other, because I was afraid of making favorable judges think of me above what they ought to think; and what a snare this must be to my own soul I know by dear-bought experience.

But, on farther reflection, I am convinced that I ought to speak the truth with all boldness, even though it should appear foolishness to the world, as it has done from the begin­ning; and that, whatever danger there is in doing the will of God, He will support me under it. In His name, therefore, and trusting in His defense, I shall plainly declare the thing as it is.

My chief motive, to which all the rest are subordinate, is the hope of saving my own soul. I hope to learn the true sense of the gospel of Christ by preaching it to the heathen. They have no comments to construe away the text; no vain philosophy to corrupt it; no luxurious, sensual, covetous, ambitious expounders to soften its unpleasing truths, to recon­cile earthly-mindedness and faith, the Spirit of Christ and the spirit of the world. They have no party, no interest to serve, and are therefore fit to receive the gospel in its simplicity. They are as little children, humble, willing to learn, and eager to do the will of God; and consequently they shall know of every doctrine I preach whether it be of God. By these, therefore, I hope to learn the purity of that faith which was once delivered to the saints; the genuine sense and full extent of those laws which none can understand who mind earthly things.

A right faith will, I trust, by the mercy of God, open the way for a right practice; especially when most of those temptations are removed which here so easily beset me. Toward mortifying the desire of the flesh, the desire of sensual pleasures, it will be no small thing to be able, without fear of giving offense, to live on water and the fruits of the earth. This simplicity of food will, I trust, be a blessed means, both of preventing my seeking that happiness in meats and drinks which God designed should be found only in faith and love and joy in the Holy Ghost; and will assist me---especially where I see no woman but those which are almost of a different species from me--to attain such a purity of thought as suits a candidate for that state wherein they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.

Neither is it a small thing to be delivered from so many occasions, as now surround me, of indulging the desire of the eye. They here compass me in on every side; but an Indian hut affords no food for curiosity, no gratification of the desire of grand or new or pretty things: though, indeed, the cedars which God hath planted round it may so gratify the eye as to better the heart, by lifting it to Him whose name alone is excel­lent and His praise above heaven and earth.

If by the pride of life we understand the pomp and show of the world, that has no place in the wilds of America. If it mean pride in general, this, alas ! has a place everywhere: yet there are very uncommon helps against it, not only by the deep humility of the poor heathens, fully sensible of their want of an instructor, but that happy contempt which cannot fail to attend all who sincerely endeavor to instruct them, and which, continually increasing, will surely make them in the end as the filth and offscouring of the world. Add to this, that nothing so convinces us of our own impotence as a zealous attempt to convert our neighbor; nor, indeed, till he does all he can for God, will any man feel that he can himself do nothing.

Farther: a sin which easily besets me is unfaithfulness to God in the use of speech. I know that this is a talent entrusted to me by my Lord, to be used, as all others, only for His glory. I know that all conversation which is not seasoned with salt, and designed at least to administer grace to the hearers, is expressly forbid by the Apostle, as corrupt communication, and as grieving the Holy Spirit of God; yet I am almost continually betrayed into it by the example of others striking in with my own bad heart. But I hope, from the moment I leave the English shore, under the acknowledged character of a teacher sent from God, there shall no word be heard from my lips but what properly flows from that character: as my tongue is a devoted thing, I hope from the first hour of this new era to use it only as such, that all who hear me may know of a truth the words I speak are not mine but His that sent me.

The same faithfulness I hope to show through His grace in dispensing the rest of my Master's goods, if it please Him to send me to those who, like His first followers, have all things common. What a guard is here against that root of evil, the love of money, and all the vile attractions that spring from it ! One in this glorious state, and perhaps none but he, may see the height and depth of that privilege of the first Christians, 'as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing all things.'

I then hope to know what it is to love my neighbor as myself, and to feel the powers of that second motive to visit the heathens, even the desire to impart to them what I have received--a saving knowledge of the gospel of Christ. But this I dare not think on yet. It is not for me, who have been a grievous sinner from my youth up, and am yet laden with foolish and hurtful desires, to expect God should work so great things by my hands; but I am assured, if I be once fully converted myself, He will then employ me both to strengthen my brethren and to preach His name to the Gentiles, that the very ends of the earth may see the salvation of our God.

But you will perhaps ask: 'Cannot you save your own soul in England as well as in Georgia ?' I answer,--No; neither can I hope to attain the same degree of holiness here which I may there; neither, if I stay here, knowing this, can I reasonably hope to attain any degree of holiness at all: for whoever, when two ways of life are proposed, prefers that which he is convinced in his own mind is less pleasing to God and less conducive to the perfection of his soul, has no reason from the gospel of Christ to hope that he shall ever please God at all or receive from Him that grace whereby alone he can attain any degree of Christian perfection.

To the other motive--the hope of doing more good in America--it is commonly objected that 'there are heathens enough in practice, if not theory, at home; why, then, should you go to those in America ? ' Why ? For a very plain reason: because these heathens at home have Moses and the Prophets, and those have not; because these who have the gospel trample upon it, and those who have it not earnestly call for it; ' there­fore, seeing these judge themselves unworthy of eternal life, lo, I turn to the Gentiles.'

If you object, farther, the losses I must sustain in leaving my native country, I ask,--Loss of what ? of anything I desire to keep ? No; I shall still have food to eat and raiment to put on--enough of such food as I choose to eat and such raiment as I desire to put on; and if any man have a desire of other things, or of more food than he can eat, or more rai­ment than he need put on, let him know that the greatest blessing which can possibly befall him is to be cut off from all occasions of gratifying those desires, which, unless speedily rooted out, will drown his soul in everlasting perdition.

'But what shall we say to the loss of parents, brethren, sisters--nay, of the friends which are as my own soul, of those who have so often lifted up my hands that hung down and strengthened my feeble knees, by whom God hath often enlightened my understanding and warmed and enlarged my heart ?' What shall we say? Why, that if you add the loss of life to the rest, so much the greater is the gain; for though ' the grass withereth and the flower fadeth, the word of our God shall stand for ever.' Say that, when human instruments are removed, He, the Lord, will answer us by His own self; and the general answer which He hath already given us to all questions of this nature is: ' Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left father, or mother, or lands, for My sake, but shall receive an hundredfold now in this time with persecutions, and in the world to come eternal life.'

Gentle reader, I recall a letter I wrote to a father of one of my peers, a Mr. Morgans and in it lies a describes the incidents which led to the formation of the Holy Club and to the social activities from which, that which some derisively call "Methodism" has evolved. Perhaps this letter can help better elucidate my desire to minister to those in the Americas.

The letter was written from Oxford in 1732.

Dear Mr. Morgan

November, 1729, at which time I came to reside at Oxford, your son my brother, myself, and one more agreed to spend three or four evenings in a week together. Our design was to read over the classics, which we had before read in private, on common nights, and on Sunday some book in divinity. In the summer following, Mr. M. told me he had called at the gaol to see a man who was condemned for killing his wife; and that, from the talk he had with one of the debtors, he verily believed it would do much good if anyone would be at the pains of now and then speaking with them.

This he so frequently repeated that on August 24, 1730, my brother and I walked with him to the castle. We were so well satisfied with our conversation there that we agreed to go thither once or twice a week; which we had not done long before he desired me to go with him to see a poor woman in the town, who was sick. In this employment too, when we came to reflect upon it, we believed it would be worth while to spend an hour or two in a week; provided the minister of the parish, in which any such person was, were not against it. But that we might not depend wholly on our own judgments, I wrote an account to my father of our whole design; withal begging that he, who had lived seventy years in the world and seen as much of it as most private men have ever done, would advise us whether we had yet gone too far and whether we should now stand still or go forward.

In pursuance of directions, I immediately went to Mr. Gerald, the Bishop of Oxford’s chaplain, who was likewise the person that took care of the prisoners when any were condemned to die (at other times they were left to their own care); I proposed to him our design of serving them as far as we could and my own intention to preach there once a month, if the bishop approved of it. He much commended our design and said he would answer for the bishop’s approbation, to whom he would take the first opportunity of mentioning it. It was not long before he informed me he had done so and that his lordship not only gave his permission, but was greatly pleased with the undertaking and hoped it would have the desired success.

Soon after, a gentleman of Merton College, who was one of our little company, which now consisted of five persons, acquainted us that he had been much rallied the day before for being a member of the Holy Club; and that it was become a common topic of mirth at his college, where they had found out several of our customs, to which we were ourselves utter strangers. Upon this I consulted my father again.

Upon encouragement we still continued to meet together as usual; and to confirm one another, as well as we could, in our resolutions to communicate as often as we had opportunity (which is here once a week); and do what service we could to our acquaintance, the prisoners, and two or three poor families in the town.

DEAR SIR, -- The dining in the hall on Friday seems to me utterly unjustifiable. It is giving offense in the worst sense, giving men occasion to think that innocent which is grossly sinful. The plausible pretenses for throwing off the very form of godliness that must be esteemed if we will do good; that we must keep those things private wherein we differ from the world, and so on, you will find fully examined in Nicodemus. [Wesley read Nicodemus; or, A Treatise on the Fear of Man, by August H. Francke, on his voyage to Georgia. He abridged it for Methodist readers in 1739. See Diary in Journal, i. 121, 300-1; Green's Wesley Bibliography, No. 12.] The Bishops can no more dispense with the law (the reason of which still subsists) than you or I can. Fasting is not a means of chastity only, but of deadness to pleasure, and heavenly-mindedness, and consequently necessary (in such measure as agrees with health) to all persons in all times of life. Had I been less strict, as 'tis called, I should have not only not done more good than I have (that is, God by me), but I never should have done any at all, nor indeed desired to do any. Till a man gives offense he will do no good; and the more offense he gives by adhering to the gospel of Christ the more good he will do, and the more good he does the more offense he will give. As to lukewarm company, I can only advise you (1) to keep out of it -- as much as you can; (2) when you cannot, to pray before, after, and during your stay in it fervently and without ceasing: but this you can't do---I know it; but God can make you able to do it, and in Him you must put your trust.

I am not satisfied (as I have told the Rector for this twelvemonth past) that the Wednesday fast [See letter of June 13, 1733.] is strictly obligatory; though I believe it very ancient, if not apostolical. He never saw what I writ upon it.

Dr. Tilly's sermons [William Tilly's Sixteen Sermons preached before the University of Oxford at St. Mary's (Phil. ii. 12-13). 'The grace of God shown to be not only consistent with the liberty of man's will, but the strongest obligation to our own endeavors' (2 Sermons. 1712).] on Free Will are the best I ever saw. His text is, 'Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.' May you all assist one another so to do, and be not ashamed of the gospel of Christ. ?a?a?a?e? te ????????, &c. Bear ye one another's burdens. I charge Mr. Robson in the name of the Lord Jesus that he no longer halt between two opinions. If the Lord be God, serve Him, love Him with all your heart, serve Him with all your strength; and pray for us that faith and utterance may be given us, that we may speak boldly as we ought to speak.

SIR, -- Going yesterday into your son's room, I providen­tially cast my eyes upon a paper that lay upon the table, and, contrary to my custom, read a line or two of it, which soon determined me to read the rest. It was a copy of his last letter to you; whereby, by the signal blessing of God, I came to the knowledge of his real sentiments, both with regard to myself and to several other points of the highest importance.

In the account he gives of me and those friends who are as my own soul, and who watch over it that I may not be myself a castaway, are some things true: as, that we imagine it is our bounden duty to spend our whole lives in the service of Him that gave them, or, in other words, 'whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, to do all to the glory of God'; that we endeavor, as we are able, to relieve the poor by buy­ing books and other necessaries for them; that some of us read prayers at the prison once a day; that I administer the sacrament once a month, and preach there as often as I am not engaged elsewhere; that we sit together five evenings in a week; and that we observe, in such manner as our health per­mits, the fasts of the Church. Some things are false, but taken up upon trust, so that I hope Mr. Morgan believed them true: as, that we almost starve ourselves; that one of us had like lately to have lost his life by too great abstinence; that we endeavor to reform notorious whores and to lay spirits in haunted houses; that we all rise every day at five o'clock; and that I am President of the Society. And some things are not only false, but I fear were known so to be when he related them as true (inasmuch as he had then had the repeated demonstration of both his eyes and ears to the contrary): such as that the Society consists of seven members (I know no more than four of them); that from five to eight in the morning they sing psalms and read some piece of divinity; and that they are emaciated to such a degree that they are a frightful sight. As to the circumstance of the brasier's wife (no intimate of mine) I am in doubt; though she positively denies she ever said so.

As strange as it may appear that one present upon the spot should so far vary from the truth in his relation, I can easily account, not only for his mistake, but for his designed misrepresentation too. The company he is almost daily with (from whom, indeed, I should soon have divided him, had not your letter's coming in the article of time tied my hands) abundantly accounts for the former; as his desire to lessen your regard for me, and thereby obviate the force of any future complaint, which he foresaw I might some time have occasion to make to you, does for the latter. And, indeed, I am not without apprehension that some such occasion may shortly come. I need not describe that apprehension to you. Be pleased to reflect what were the sentiments of your own heart when the ship that took your son from you loosed from shore; and such (allowing for the superior tenderness of a parent) are mine. Such were my father's before he parted from us; when, taking him by the hand, he said, 'Mr. Morgan between this and Easter is your trial for life: I even tremble when I consider the danger you are in; and the more because you do not yourself perceive it.' Impute not, sir, this fear either to the error of my youth or to the coldness of his age. Is there not a cause? Is he not surrounded, even in this recess, with those who are often more pernicious than open libertines? -- men who retain something of outward decency, and nothing else; who seriously idle away the whole day, and reputably revel till midnight, and ff not drunken themselves, yet encouraging and applauding those that are so; who have no more of the form than of the power of godliness, and though they do pretty often drop in at public prayers, coming after the most solemn part of them is over, yet expressly disown any obligation to attend them. 'Tis true they have not yet laughed your son out of all his dili­gence; but how long it will be before they have, God knows. They zealously endeavor it at all convenient opportunities; and temporal views are as unable to support him under such an attack as his slender notions of religion are; of which, he often says, he thinks he shall have enough if he constantly says his prayers at home and in the chapel. As to my advice on this or any other head, they had secured him pretty wall before; and your authority added to theirs has supplied him with armor of proof against it. I now beg to know what you would have me do. Shall I sit still, and let him swim down the stream? Or shall I plunge in, bound as I am hand and foot, and oppose myself to his company, his inclina­tions, and his father?

Why, you say I am to incite him to live a sober, virtuous, and religious life. Nay, but first let us agree what religion is. I take religion to be, not the bare saying over so many prayers, morning and evening, in public or in private; not anything superadded now and then to a careless or worldly life; but a constant ruling habit of soul, a renewal of our minds in the image of God, a recovery of the divine likeness, a still-increasing conformity of heart and life to the pattern of our most holy Redeemer. But if this be religion, if this be that way to life which our blessed Lord hath marked out for us, how can any one, while he keeps close to this way, be charged with running into extremes ? 'Tis true there is no going out of it, either to the right hand or to the left, without running into an extreme; and, to prevent this, the wisdom of the Church has in all ages appointed guides for the unexperienced, lest they should wander into by-paths and seek death in the error of their life. But while he is in the right way, what fear is there of your son's going too fast in it ? I appeal to your own experience. Have you observed any such disposition in him as gives you ground to suspect he will love God too well or keep himself too 'unspotted from the world'? Or has his past life been such as that you have just reason to apprehend the remainder of it should too much resemble that of our blessed Master? I will go farther. Have you re­marked, in the various scenes you have gone through, that youth in general is apt to run into the extreme of piety? Is it to this excess that the fervor of their blood and the impetu­osity of their passions hurry them? But we may not stop here. Is there any fear, is there any possibility, that any son of Adam, of whatever age or degree, should too faithfully do the will of his Creator or too exactly tread in the steps of his Redeemer? Suppose the time now come when you feel within yourself that the silver cord of life is loosed, that the dust is returning to the earth as it was, and the spirit unto God who gave it. The snares of death overtake you. Nothing but pain is on the one hand, eternity on the other. The tears of the friends that surround your bed bear witness with the pangs of your own heart that it has few pulses more to beat before you launch out into the sea without a shore, before the soul shall part from your quivering lips and stand naked before the judgment-seat of God. Will you then be content with having served God according to the custom of the place you was in? Will you regret your having been, even from your youth, ' more pure and holy than the rest of mankind'? Will you complain to the ministering spirits who receive your new-born soul that you have been 'over-zealous in the love of your Master'? Ask not me, a poor, fallible, sinful mortal, never safe either from the snares of ill example or the treachery of my own heart; but ask them, ask Him who died to make you and me and your son zealous of good works, whether you may be excused for your solicitude, your too successful solicitude, to prevent his falling into this extreme! How needless has he made that solicitude already ! But I spare you. The good God be merciful to us both!

Think not, sir, that interest occasions the concern I show. I despise and abhor the thought. From the moment my brother told me, 'Mr. Morgan will be safer with you than me; I have desired he may be sent to you,' I determined (though I have never mentioned it to him) to restore to him whatsoever is paid me upon Mr. Morgan's account. It is, with regard to me, an accursed thing. There shall no such cleave unto me. I have sufficient motives without this to assist your son, so long as he will accept of my assistance. He is the brother of my dear friend, the son of one that was my friend till great names warped him from his purpose; and, what is infinitely more, the creature of my God, and the redeemed and fellow heir of my Savior. That neither the cares of the world, nor the fair speeches and venerable titles of any who set up their rest therein, may prevent our attaining our better inheritance, is the earnest prayer of, sir,

Your most obliged and most obedient servant.,

I beg, if you favor me with another letter, it may not be enclosed in Mr. Morgan's.

SIR,--The bank-note sent by Mr. Huey was exchanged to­day. I have paid Mr. Lasher £11 17s. 6d. of the £50 (and the £9 in my brother's hands), the Bursar £24 for caution-money, and 40s. the usual fee for his admission into the common-room. Mr. Morgan usually rises about six, and has not yet been want­ing in diligence. He seldom goes out of college unless upon business or to walk for his health, which I would willingly persuade him to do every day. He loses no time at taverns or coffee-houses, and avoids as much as possible idle company, which every gentleman here will soon be pestered with if he has not some show of resolution. Some evenings every week he spends in the common-room, and others with my brother and me. Of his being admitted into our Society (if it deserves so honorable a title) there is no danger. All those gentlemen whom I have the happiness to converse with two or three times a week upon a religious account would oppose me to the utmost should I attempt to introduce among them at those important hours one of whose prudence I had had so short a trial and who was so little experienced in piety and charity.

Several of the points you mention deserve a fuller con­sideration than I have leisure to give them. I shall ever own myself extremely obliged for the freedom with which you mention them, and have endeavored to answer you with the same freedom, which I am persuaded will not be disagreeable to you.

That my dear friend, now with God, was much disordered in his understanding. I had often observed long before he left England. That he was likewise sincerely religious, all observed; but whoever had seen his behavior in the successive stages of his illness might as easily have mistaken darkness for light as his madness for his religion. They were not only different, but opposite too; one counteracting the other from its beginning. I cannot better describe his religion than in the words of the person who wrote his elegy:

Mild, sweet, serene, and tender was her mood,

Nor grave with sternness, nor with lightness free!

Against example resolutely good,

Fervent in zeal and warm in charity!

Who ne'er forsook her faith for love of peace,

Nor sought with fire and sword to show her zeal;

Duteous to rulers when they most oppress,

Patient in bearing ill, and doing well. [Description of Divine Religion, from The Battle of the Sexes, stanza xxxv., by his brother Samuel. For 'tender' (line 1) read 'cheerful,' for 'rulers' (line 7) 'princes.' Wesley quotes the last line in the obituary of Robert Swindells (Minutes, x783).]

Directly contrary to every article of this was his madness. It was harsh, sour, cloudy, and severe. It was sometimes extravagantly light and sometimes sternly serious. It under­mined his best resolutions by an absurd deference to example. It damped the fervor of his zeal and gradually impaired the warmth of his charity. It had not, indeed, as yet attacked his duteous regard for his superiors, nor drove him to exter­minate sin by fire and sword; for when it had so obscured that clear judgment whereon his holiness stood that his very faith and patience began to be in danger, the God whom he served came to his rescue and snatched him from the evil to

Come.

'But though his religion was not the same with his madness, might it not be the cause of it ?' I answer, No. 'Tis full as reasonable to believe that light is darkness as that it is the cause of it. We may just as well think that mildness and harsh­ness, sweetness and sternness, gentleness and fury are the same thing, as that the former are the causes of the latter, or have any tendency thereto.

'But he said himself his distemper was religious madness, and who should know better than himself?' Who should know the truth better than one out of his senses? Why, any one that was in them, especially any one that had observed the several workings of his soul before the corruptible body pressed it down; when his apprehension was unclouded, his' judgment sound, and his reason cool and unimpaired. Then it was that he knew himself and his Master; then he spoke the words of truth and soberness, and justified by those words the wisdom he loved, only not as much as he adorned it by his life.

True it is God was pleased, for the trial both of him and us, to visit him with a grievous illness. As his illness increased his reason declined, and consequently his religion built upon it. Till that melancholy effect of his disease, I challenge all the fools who counted his preceding life madness to point out one extreme he was in of any sort or one instance of his zeal which was not according to knowledge. 'Tis easy for any of them to declaim in general against enthusiasm and carrying things too far, and even to prevail upon an unwary mind, shattered by sickness, to plead guilty to the accusation. But let them come to particulars, and I do hereby undertake to prove that every fact they allege against him is either abso­lutely false or that it is agreeable to the strictest rules both of piety and Christian prudence.

His fasting (or abstinence rather, for I do not know that he ever fasted one day) I least of all 'except; as being firmly persuaded, from careful and repeated observations, that had he continued it he had been alive to this day. Nor are there wanting as great names for this opinion as any that advised on the contrary, who believe that wine and free diet to one in his circumstances was as sure a recipe as shooting him through the head.

I acknowledge your goodness in having a far better opinion of me than I deserve, or, I trust in God, shall ever desire. I have many things to add when time permits, but one I dare not defer a moment. 'Tis absolutely necessary to guard your surviving son against the least suspicion of my over-great zeal or strictness. You are fully sensible he is in no danger of either. But if he once fancies I am, that fancy will cut me off from all possibility of doing him any substantial service. whatever advice I may have occasion to give with regard to his moral conduct, ' much religion hath made thee mad ' will be a sufficient answer to all. For your sake and his I beg to know (what I should otherwise not think it worth while to bestow one thought upon) any overt acts of my enthusiasm which pass current in Ireland either with the gay or the serious part of the world.

My brother gladly joins with me in acknowledging all your favors both to him and to, good sir,

DEAR BROTHER, -- I had rather dispute, if I must dispute, with you than with any man living, because it may be done with so little expense of time and words.

The question is now brought to one point, and the whole of the argument will be in a single syllogism:

Neither hope of doing greater good nor fear of any evil ought to deter you from what you have engaged yourself to.

But you have engaged yourself to undertake the cure of a parish:

Therefore neither that hope nor that fear ought to deter you from it.

The only doubt is whether I have engaged myself or not. You think I did at my ordination, ' before God and His high-priest.' I think I did not.

However, I own I am not the proper judge of the oath I then took. It being certain and allowed by all-- 'Verbis in quibus quis jurejurando adigitur, sensum genuinum, ut et obligationem sacramenti et modum et mensuram praestari a mente non praestantis, sed exigentis juramentum.' [The words are probably a quota­tion from an English Canonist, and have been thus translated: 'To words in which any one is caused to take an oath, the true meaning, and also the manner and extent of the obligation of the oath, is supplied from the mind, not of the taker of the oath, but of him who demands it.' See Journal, i. 29.]

Therefore it is not I, but the high-priest of God before whom I contracted that engagement, who is to judge of the nature and extent of it. Accordingly the post after I received yours I referred it entirely to him,[ Dr. Potter, trs. to Canterbury1737.] proposing this single question to him, Whether I had at my ordination engaged myself to undertake the cure of any parish or no? His answer runs in these words:

REVD. SIR, -- It doth not seem to me that at your ordination you engaged yourself to undertake the cure of any parish, provided you can as a clergyman better serve God and His Church in your present or some other station.

Now, that I can as a clergyman better serve God and His Church in my present station I have all reasonable evidence. [See letters of Feb. 15, 1733, and Dec. 10, 1734.]

REVEREND SIR, -- I had the favor of yours, and am very thankful for your care and tenderness about my son, who I am sure will observe your advice and directions in everything. 11y concern about my only son brings the misfortunes of my other son fresh into my mind, and obliges me now to impart to you, and only to you, what I have hitherto concealed from all men as far as it could be kept secret.

After he had spent about six weeks with me in Dublin, and the physicians having agreed that the air at Oxford was better for his health than the Irish air, when I was obliged to take a journey with my Lord Primate into his diocese, my dear son was to set out on his journey to England the same day, which he accordingly did. He rode an easy pad, and was to make easy journeys through part of this kingdom to see some relations in the way, and to take shipping at Cork, from which there is a short passage to Bristol, and from thence the journey not great to Oxford.

He traveled twelve miles the first day, attended by that careful servant that was with him at Oxford. The servant observed him to act and talk lightly and incoherently that day. He slept little or none at night, but often cried out that the house was on fire, and used other wild expressions.

The second day he grew worse, and threw his bridle over the horse's head, and would neither guide him himself nor let the man guide him, whom he charged to stay behind, saying that God would guide him. The horse turned about, went in side-roads, and went to a disused quarry filled with water to drink, where my poor child fell off, and had then like to have been lost, the servant not daring to do but as he bid him, whom he often beat and struck. The servant then, finding him deprived of all understanding and outrageous, by great art and management brought him back to Dublin.

Two of our most eminent physicians and the Surgeon-General were brought to attend him; an express was sent after me, with whom I hastened back to town. He was put into a room [up] two pair of stairs and the sashes nailed down; yet he found an oppor­tunity to run to one of the windows, tore it down, though nailed, and was more than half out, before he could be catched, but was happily saved. He was raving mad, and three men set over him to watch him and hold, and by the direction of the physicians he was threatened with ropes and chains, which were produced to him and rattled.

In his madness he used frequently to say that enthusiasm was his madness, repeated often 'Oh religious madness!' that they had hindered him from being now with God, meaning their hindering him from throwing himself out at the window, and named some other persons and things that I shan't mention; but in his greatest rage never cursed or swore or used any profane expressions. Some have told me since that they looked upon him to be dis­ordered some time before in his head. But God was pleased to take him to Himself in seven days' time, which no doubt the blisterings and severities used by the physicians and surgeon for his recovery precipitated.

These are melancholy reflections, which make me earnestly desire that my surviving son should not go into those over-zealous ways which (as is apprehended) contributed to this great misfortune which finished my other son. I would have him live a sober, virtuous, and religious life, and to go to church and sacrament according to the statutes and customs of his College; but for young people to pretend to be more pure and holy than the rest of mankind is a dangerous experiment. As to charitable subscriptions and contributions, I wholly debar him from making any because he has not one shilling of his own but what I give him; which I appropriate wholly to his maintenance, education, and moderate and inoffensive recreation and pleasures; and I believe as a casuist you will agree with me that it is injustice, and consequently sinful rather than virtue, to apply my money any other way than as I appropriate it. He must leave me to measure out my own charities, and to distribute them in such manner and proportion as I shall think proper.

I hope you will not suspect, from anything I have said, that I intend the least reflection or disrespect to you; for if I did not think very well of you, and had not a great opinion of your conduct and abilities, I should not put my only son under your tuition, which I think is the best proof a man can give of his good esteem and opinion of another.

The tragical account I give you of my poor deceased son, my son Richard can inform you of as well as I; which I charged him to say nothing of at Oxford, but now he may to you, if you think proper to inquire of him about it: and I hope I may be excused for being solicitous to prevent my present son's falling into extremes, which it is thought were so prejudicial to my other.

I sent a bill of £5o by the last post to Mr. James Huey, merchant, in Aldermanbury, London, with directions to transmit the value to you, which I hope is done. I shall begrudge no money that is for my son's benefit and advantage. I would have him live as decently as other gentlemen of his station. I am very desirous that he should keep a regular account, that he may attain to a habit of it, knowing the great use and benefit of accounts to all men. I shall depend upon you letting me know when a further supply will be wanting.

DEAR BROTHER, --Neither you nor I have any time to spare; so I must be as short as I can.

There are two questions between us; one relating to being good, the other to doing good. With regard to the former:

1. You allow I enjoy more of friends, retirement, freedom from care, and divine ordinances than I could do elsewhere: and I add (1) I feel all this to be but just enough; (2) I have always found less than this to be too little for me; and there­fore (3) whatever others do, I could not throw up any part of it without manifest hazard to my salvation.

As to the latter:

2. I am not careful to answer 'what good I have done at Oxford,' because I cannot think of it without the utmost danger. ' I am careful about what I may do at Epworth,' (1) because I can think of it without any danger at all; (2) because I cannot, as matters now stand, avoid thinking of it without sin.

3. Another can supply my place at Epworth better than at Oxford, and the good done here is of a far more diffusive nature. It is a more extensive benefit to sweeten the foun­tain than to do the same to particular streams.

4. To the objection, You are despised at Oxford, therefore you can do no good there, I answer: (1) A Christian will be despised anywhere. (2) No one is a Christian till he is de­spised. (3) His being .despised will not hinder his doing good, but much further it by making him a better Christian. With­out contradicting any of these propositions, I allow that every one to whom you do good directly must esteem you, first or last. -- N.B. A man may despise you for one thing, hate you for a second, and envy you for a third.

5. God may suffer Epworth to be worse than before. But I may not attempt to prevent it, with so great hazard to my own soul.

Your last argument is either ignoratio elenchi, or implies these two propositions: (1) 'You resolve against any parochial cure of souls.' (2) 'The priest who does not undertake the first parochial cure that offers is perjured.' Let us add a third: ' The tutor who, being in Orders, never accepts of a parish is perjured.' [That was Samuel Wcsley's own case.] And then I deny all three. --I am, dear brother,

DEAR BROTHER,--Had not my brother Charles desired it might be otherwise, I should have sent you only an extract of the following letter.[ To his father on Dec. 10, 1734.] But if you will be at the pains, you will soon reduce the argument of it to two or three points, which, if to be answered at all, will be easily answered. By it you may observe my present purpose is founded on my present weakness. But it is not, indeed, probable that my father should live till that weakness is removed.

Your second argument I had no occasion to mention before. To it I answer, that I do not, nor ever did, resolve against undertaking a cure of souls. There are four cures belonging to our College, and consistent with a Fellowship: I do not know but I may take one of them at Michaelmas. Not that I am clearly assured that I should be false to my engagement were I only to instruct and exhort the pupils committed to my charge. But of that I should think more.

I desire your full thoughts upon the whole, as well as your prayers, for, dear brother,

DEAR MOTHER, -- Give my leave to say once more that our folks do, and will I supose to the end of the chapter, mistake the question.

Supposing him changed? Say they. Right: but that supposition has not proof yet – whether it may have: when it has, then we may come to our other point, whether all this be not providence, i.e. blessing. And whether we are empowered so to judge, condemn, and execute an imprudent Christian, as God forbid I should ever use a Turk or Deist.

I have had a great deal of a conversation lately on the subject of Christian liberty, and should be glad of your thoughts as to the several notions of it which good men entertain. I perceive different persons take it in at least six different senses: (1) For liberty from willful sin, in opposition to the bondage of natural corruption. (2) For liberty as to rites and points of discipline. So Mr. Whiston says, though the stations were constituted by the Apostles, yet the liberty of the Christian law dispenses with them on extraordinary occasions. [William Whiston (1667-1752) succeeded Newton as Lucasian Pro­fessor in 1703. The reference is to his book, The Primitive Eucharist Revived; or, an account of the doctrine and practice of the two first centuries. The ' stations' were the fasts: see letter of June 13, 1753, n.] (3) For liberty from denying ourselves in little things; for trifles, 'tis commonly thought, we may indulge in safety, because Christ hath made us free. This notion, I a little doubt, is not sound. (4) For liberty from fear, or a filial freedom in our intercourse with God. A Christian, says Dr. Knight, [ James Knight, Vicar of St. Sepulchre's, London. See letter of May 8, 1739.] is free from fear on account of his past sins; for he believes in Christ, and hope frees him from fear of losing his present labor or of being a castaway hereafter. (5) Christian liberty is taken by some for a freedom from restraint as to sleep or food. So they would say, your drinking but one glass of wine, or my rising at a fixed hour, was contrary to Christian liberty. Lastly, it is taken for freedom from rules. If by this be meant making our rules yield to extraordinary occasions, well: if the having no prudential rules, this liberty is as yet too high for me; I cannot attain unto it.

We join in begging yours and my father's blessing, and wishing you an Happy Year. -- I am, dear mother,

Your dutiful and affectionate Son.

To Mrs. Wesley, At Epworth. To be left at the Post-house in Gainsborough. By London.

DEAR SIR, -- 1. The authority of a parent and the call of Providence are things of so sacred a nature that a question in which these are any ways concerned deserves the most serious consideration. I am therefore greatly obliged to you for the pains you have taken to set ours in a clear light; which I now intend to consider more at large, with the utmost atten­tion of which I am capable. And I shall the more cheerfully do it, as being assured of your joining with me in earnestly imploring His guidance who will not suffer those that bend their wills to His to seek death in the error of their life.

2. I entirely agree that ' the glory of God and the, different degrees of promoting it are to be our sole consideration and direction in the choice of any course of life'; and consequently that it must wholly turn upon this single point, whether I am to prefer a college life or that of a rector of a parish. I do not say the glory of God is to be my first or my principal consideration, but my only one; since all that are not implied in this are absolutely of no weight: in presence of this they all vanish away; they are less than the small dust of the balance.

3. And indeed, till all other considerations were set aside, I could never come to any clear determination; till my eye was single, my whole mind was full of darkness. Every consideration distinct from this threw a shadow over all the objects I had in view, and was such a cloud as no light could penetrate. Whereas, so long as I can keep my eye single and steadily fixed on the glory of God, I have no more doubt of the way wherein I should go than of the shining of the sun at noonday.

4. That course of life tends most to the glory of God where­in we can most promote holiness in ourselves and others. I say in ourselves and others, as being fully persuaded that these can never be put asunder. For how is it possible that the good God should make our interest inconsistent with our neighbor's? that He should make our being in one state best for ourselves, and our being in another best for the Church ? This would be making a strange schism in His body; such as surely never was from the beginning of the world. And if not, then whatever state is best on either of these accounts is so on the other likewise. If it be best for others, then it is so for us; if for us, then for them.

5. However, when two ways of life are proposed, I should choose to begin with that part of the question, Which of these have I rational ground to believe will conduce most to my own improvement ? And that not only because it is every physician's concern to heal himself first, but because it seems we may judge with more ease, and perhaps certainty too, in which state we can most promote holiness in ourselves than in which we can most promote it in others.

6. By holiness I mean not fasting (as you seem to sup­pose), or bodily austerity, or any other external means of improvement, but the inward temper, to which all these are subservient, a renewal of the soul in the image of God. I mean a complex habit of lowliness, meekness, purity, faith, hope, and the love of God and man. And I therefore believe that, in the state wherein I am, I can most promote this holiness in myself, because I now enjoy several advantages which are almost peculiar to it.

7. The first of these is daily converse with my friends. I know no other place under heaven where I can have always at hand half a dozen persons nearly of my own judgment and engaged in the same studies: persons who are awakened into a full and lively conviction that they have only one work to do upon earth; who are in some measure enlightened so as to see, though at a distance, what that one work is -- viz. the recovery of that single intention and pure affection which were in Christ Jesus; who, in order to this, have according to their power renounced themselves, and wholly and absolutely devoted themselves to God; and who suitably thereto deny themselves, and take up their cross daily. To have such a number of such friends constantly watching over my soul, and according to the variety of occasions administering reproof, advice, or exhortation with all plainness and all gentleness, is a blessing I have not yet found any Christians to enjoy in any other part of the kingdom. And such a blessing it is, so conducive, if faithfully used, to the increase of all holiness, as I defy any one to know the full value of till he receives his full measure of glory.

8. Another invaluable blessing which I enjoy here in a greater degree than I could anywhere else is retirement. I have not only as much, but as little, company as I please. I have no such thing as a trifling visitant, except about an hour in a month, when I invite some of the Fellows to breakfast. Unless at that one time, no one ever takes it into his head to set foot within my door, except he has some business of import­ance to communicate to me or I to him. And even then, as soon as he has dispatched his business, he immediately takes his leave.

9. Both these blessings, the continual presence of useful and uninterrupted freedom from trifling acquaintance, are exceedingly endeared to me, whenever I have spent but one week out of this place. The far greatest part of the conversa­tion I meet with abroad, even among those whom I believe to be real Christians, turns on points that are absolutely wide of my purpose, that no way forward me in the business of life. Now, though they may have time to spare, I have none; it is absolutely necessary for such an one as me to follow, with all possible care and vigilance, that excellent advice of Mr. Herbert:

Still let thy mind be bent, still plotting where,

And when, and how the business may be done. [George Herbert's The Temple, 'The Church Porch,' stanza 57.]

And this, I bless God, I can in some measure do, so long as I avoid that bane of piety, the company of good sort of men, lukewarm Christians (as they are called), persons that have a great concern for but no sense of religion. But these under­mine insensibly all my resolutions, and quite steal from me the little fervor I have; and I never come from among these saints of the world (as J. Valdesso [Juan de Valdes (Ital. Valdesso), born about 1500 at Cuenca in Castile, labored unceasingly by tongue and pen for religious reform. In his Alfabeto Christiano he insists that the soul must choose between God and the world. He died in 1540 or 1541.] calls them) faint, dissipated, and shorn of all my strength, but I say, ' God deliver me from an half-Christian.'

10. Freedom from care I take to be the next greatest advantage to freedom from useless and therefore hurtful company. And this too I enjoy in greater perfection here than I can ever expect to do anywhere else. I hear of such a thing as the cares of this world, and I read of them, but I know them not. My income is ready for me on so many stated days, and all I have to do is to count and carry it home. The grand article of my expense is food, and this too is provided without any care of mine. I have nothing to do but at such an hour to take and eat what is prepared for me. My laun­dress, barber, &c., are always ready at quarter-day; so I have no trouble on account of those expenses. And for what I occasionally need, I can be supplied from time to time without any expense of thought. Now, to convince me what an help to holiness this is (were not my experience abundantly suffi­cient) I should need no better authority than St. Paul's: ' I would have you be without carefulness. This I speak for your own profit, that ye may attend upon the Lord' without distraction.' Happy is he that careth only for the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord. He may be holy both in body and spirit, after the Apostle's judgment; and I think that he had the Spirit of God.

11. To quicken me in making a thankful and diligent use of all the other advantages of this place, I have the oppor­tunity of public prayer twice a day and of weekly communi­cating. It would be easy to mention many more, and like­wise to show many disadvantages, which a person of greater courage and skill than me could scarce separate from a country life. But whatever one of experience and resolution might do, I am very sensible I should not be able to turn aside one of the thousand temptations that would immediately rush upon me. I could not stand my ground, no, not for one month, against intemperance in sleeping, eating, and drinking; against irregularity in study, against a general lukewarmness in my affections and remissness in my actions; against soft­ness and self-indulgence, directly opposite to that discipline and hardship which become a soldier of Jesus Christ. And then, when my spirit was thus dissolved, I should be an easy prey to whatever impertinent company came in my way. Then would the cares of the world and the desire of other things roll back with a full tide upon me. It would be no wonder if, while I preached to others, I myself should be a castaway. I cannot, therefore, but observe that the question does not relate barely to degrees of perfection, but to the very essence and being of it. Agitur de vita et sanguine Turni. [Virgil's Aeneid, xii. 765 (Turni de vita et sanguine certant): ‘They contend about the life and blood of Turnus.'] The point is, whether I shall or shall not work out my salva­tion, whether I shall serve Christ or Belial.

12. What still heightens my fear of this untried state is that, when I am once entered into it, be the inconveniences of it found more or less -- vestigia nulls retrorsum [‘No retracing one's steps’ (Aesop's ‘The Fox and the Sick Lion’).] -- when I am there, there I must stay. If this way of life should ever prove less advantageous, I have almost continual opportunities of quitting it; but whatever difficulties occur in that, whether foreseen or unforeseen, there is no returning, any more than from the grave. When I have once launched out into that unknown sea, there is no recovering my harbor; I must on among whatever whirlpools or rocks or sands, though all the waves and storms go over me.

13. Thus much as to myself. But you justly observe that we are not to consider ourselves alone; since God made us all for a social life, to which academical studies' are only prepara­tory. I allow, too, that He will take an exact account of every talent which He has lent us, not to bury them, but to employ every mite we have received in diffusing holiness all around us. I cannot deny that every follower of Christ is in his propor­tion the light of the world; that whoever is such can no more be concealed than the sun in the midst of heaven; that, being set as a light in a dark place, his shining out must be the more conspicuous; that to this very end was his light given, that it might shine at least to all that look towards him; and, indeed, that there is one only way of hiding it, which is to put it out. Neither can I deny that it is the indispensable duty of every Christian to impart both light and heat to all who are willing to receive it. I am obliged likewise, unless I lie against the truth, to grant that there is not so contemptible an animal upon earth as one that drones away life, without ever laboring to promote the glory of God and the good of men; and that whether he be young or old, learned or unlearned, in a college or out of it. Yet, granting the superlative degree of contempt to be on all accounts due to a college drone; a wretch that hath received ten talents, and yet employs none; that is not only promised a reward by his gracious master, but is paid beforehand for his work by his generous founder, and yet works not at all;--allowing all this, and whatever else can be said (for I own it is impossible to say enough) against the drowsy ingratitude, the lazy perjury of those who are commonly called harmless or good sort of men (a fair proportion of whom I must, to our shame, confess are to be found in colleges)--allowing this, I say, I do not apprehend it will conclude against a college life in general. For the abuse of it does not destroy the use; though there are some here who are the lumber of the creation, it does not follow that others may not be of more service to the world in this station than they could in any other.

14. That I in particular could, might, it seems, be inferred from what has been proved already -- viz. that I could be holier here myself than anywhere else if I faithfully used the bless­ings I enjoy; for, to prove that the holier any man is himself the more shall he promote holiness in others, there needs no more than this one postulatum, the help which is done on earth God does it Himself. If so, if God be the sole agent in healing souls, and man only the instrument in His hand, there can no doubt be made but that the more holy a man is He will make use of him the more: because he is more willing to be so used; because the more pure he is, he is the fitter instrument for the God of purity; because he will pray more and more earnestly that he may be employed, and that his service may tend to his Master's glory; because all his prayers, both for employ­ment and success therein, will the more surely pierce the clouds; because, the more his heart is enlarged, the wider sphere he may act in without carefulness or distraction; and, lastly, because, the more his heart is renewed in the image of God, the more God can renew it in others by him, without destroying him by pride or vanity.

15. But for the proof of every one of these weighty truths experience is worth a thousand reasons. I see, I feel them every day. Sometimes I cannot do good to others because I am unwilling to do it: shame or pain is in the way; and I do not desire to serve God at so dear a rate. Sometimes I cannot do the good I desire to do because I am in other respects too unholy. I know within myself, were I fit to be so employed, God would employ me in this work. But my heart is too unclean for such mighty works to be wrought by my hands. Sometimes I cannot accomplish the good I am employed in, because I do not pray more, and more fervently; and some­times, even when I do pray, and that instantly, because I am not worthy that my prayer should be heard. Sometimes I dare not attempt to assist my neighbor, because I know the narrowness of my heart, that it cannot attend to many things without utter confusion and dissipation of thought. And a thousand times have I been mercifully withheld from success in the things I have attempted, because, were one so proud and vain enabled to gain others, he would lose his own soul.

16. From all this I conclude that, where I am most holy myself, there I could most promote holiness in others; and consequently that I could more promote it here than in any place under heaven. But I have likewise other reasons be­sides this to think so; and the first is, the plenteousness of the harvest. Here is, indeed, a large scene of various action. Here is room for charity in all its forms. There is scarce any way of doing good to our fellow creatures for which here is not daily occasion. I can now only touch on the several heads: here are poor families to be relieved; here are children to be educated; here are workhouses wherein both young and old want, and gladly receive, the word of exhortation; here are prisons to be visited, wherein alone is a complication of all human wants; and, lastly, here are the schools of the prophets--here are tender minds to be formed and strengthened, and babes in Christ to be instructed and perfected in all useful learning. Of these in particular we must observe that he who gains only one does thereby as much service to the world as he could do in a parish in his whole life, for his name is legion; in him are contained all those who shall be converted by him. He is not a single drop of the dew of heaven, but a ' river to make glad the city of God.'

17. ‘But Epworth is yet a larger sphere of action than this; there I should have the care of two thousand souls.’ Two thousand souls ! I see not how any man living can take care of an hundred. At least I could not; I know too well quid valeant humeri. [‘How much I can bear.’] Because the weight that I have akeady upon me is almost more than I am able to bear, ought I to increase it tenfold?

Would this be the way to help either myself or my brethren up to heaven ? Nay; but the mountains I reared would only crush my own soul, and so make me utterly useless to others.

18. I need not but just glance upon several other reasons why I am more likely to be useful here than anywhere else: as, because I have the joint advice of many friends in any difficulty, and their joint encouragement in any dangers; because the good Bishop and Vice-Chancellor are at hand to supply (as need is) their want of experience; because we have the eyes of multitudes upon us, who, even without designing it, perform the most substantial office of friendship, apprising us where we have already fallen, and guarding us from falling again; lastly, because we have here a constant fund (which I believe this year will amount to near eighty pounds) to supply the bodily wants of the poor, and thereby prepare their souls to receive instruction.

19. If it be said that the love of the people at Epworth balances all these advantages here, I ask, How long will it last? Only till I come to tell them plainly that their deeds are evil, and, to make a particular application of that general sentence, to say to each, Thou art the man! Alas, sir, do I not know what love they had for you at first? And how have they used you since? Why, just as every one will be used whose business it is to bring light to them that love to sit in darkness.

20. Notwithstanding, therefore, their present prejudice in my favor, I cannot quit my first conclusion, that I am not likely to do that good anywhere, not even at Epworth, which I may do at Oxford; and yet one terrible objection lies in the way: Have you found it so in fact? What have you done there in so many years? Nay, have not the very attempts to do good, for want either of a particular turn of mind for the business you engaged in or of prudence to direct you in the right method of doing it, not only been unsuccessful, but brought such contempt upon you as has in great measure disqualified you for any future success? And are there not men in Oxford who are not only better and holier than you, but who, having preserved their reputation, who, being uni­versally esteemed, are every way fitter to promote the glory of God in that place?

21. I am not careful to answer in this matter. It is not my part to say whether God has done any good by my hands; whether I have a particular turn of mind for this or not; or whether the want of success in my past attempts was owing to want of prudence, to ignorance of the right method of acting, or to some other cause. But the latter part of the objection, that he who is despised can do no good, that without reputa­tion a man cannot be useful in the world, being the stronghold of all the unbelieving, the vainglorious, and the cowardly Christians (so called), I will, by the grace of God, see what reason that has thus continually to exalt itself against the knowledge of Christ.

22. With regard to contempt, then (under which term I include all the passions that border upon it, as hatred, envy, &c., and all the fruits that flow from them, such as calumny, reproach, and persecution in any of its forms), my first position, in defiance of worldly wisdom, is this: Every true Christian is contemned, wherever he lives, by all who are not so, and who know him to be such -- i.e. in effect, by all with whom he converses; since it is impossible for light not to shine. This position I prove both from the example of our Lord and from His express assertions. First, from His example: if the disciple is not above his master, nor the servant above his lord, then, as our Master was despised and rejected of men, so will every one of His true disciples. But the disciple is not above his master, and therefore the consequence will not fail him an hair's breadth. Secondly, from His own express assertions of this consequence: 'If they have called the master of the house Beelzebub, how much more them of his household I ' (Matt. x. 25); ' Remember (ye that would fain forget or evade it) the word that I said unto you, The servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted Me, they will also persecute you.' And as for that vain hope that this belongs only to the first followers of Christ, hear ye Him: ' All these things will they do to you, because they know not Him that sent Me'; and again, ' Because ye are not of the world, therefore the world hateth you' (John xv. 19). Both the persons who are hated, and the persons who hate them, and the cause of their hating them, are here clearly determined. The hated are all that are not of this world, that are born again in the knowledge and love of God: the haters are all that are of this world, that know not God so as to love Him with all their strength; the cause of their hatred is, the entire irreconcilable differences between their desires, judgments, and affections; --- because these know not God, and those are determined to know and pursue nothing besides Him; because these esteem and love the world, and those count it dung and dross, and singly desire that love of Christ.

23. My next position is this: Until he be thus contemned, no man is in a state of salvation. And this is no more than a plain inference from the former; for if all that are not of the world are therefore contemned by those that are, then till a man is so contemned he is of the world -- i.e. out of a state of salvation. Nor is it possible for all the trimmers between God and the world, for all the dodgers in religion, to elude this con­sequence, which God has established, and not man, unless they could prove that a man may be of the world -- i.e. void both of the knowledge and love of God--and yet be in a state of salvation. I must therefore, with or without leave of these, keep close to my Savior's judgment, and maintain that con­tempt is a part of that cross which every man must bear if he will follow Him; that it is the badge of his discipleship, the stamp of his profession, the constant seal of his calling; inso­much that, though a man may be despised without being saved, yet he cannot be saved without being despised.

24. I should not spend any more words about this great truth, but that it seems at present quite voted out of the world: the masters in Israel, learned men, men of renown, seem absolutely to have forgotten it; nay, censure those who have not forgotten the words of their Lord as setters forth of strange doctrines. And hence it is commonly asked, How can these things be? How can contempt be necessary to salvation? I answer, As it is a necessary means of purifying souls for heaven; as it is a blessed instrument of cleansing them from pride, which else would turn their very graces into poison; as it is a glorious antidote against vanity, which would other­wise pollute and destroy all their labors; as it is an excellent medicine to heal 'the anger and impatience of spirit apt to insinuate into their best employments; and, in a word, as it is one of the choicest remedies in the whole magazine of God against love of the world, in which whosoever liveth is counted dead before Him.

25. And hence (as a full answer to the preceding objection) I infer one position more: That our being contemned is absolutely necessary to our doing good in the world. If not to our doing some good (for God may work by Judas), yet to our doing so much as we otherwise should. For since God will employ those instruments most who are fittest to be employed; since, the holier a man is, the fitter instrument he is for the God of holiness; and since contempt is so glorious a means of advancing holiness in him that is exercised thereby; nay, since no man can be holy at all without it, -- who can keep off the consequence? The being contemned is absolutely necessary to a Christian's doing his full measure of good in the world. Where, then, is the scribe? where is the wise? where is the dispurer of this world? where is the replier against God with his sage maxims? 'He that is despised can do no good in the world; to be useful, a man must be esteemed; to advance the glory of God, you must have a fair reputation.' Saith the world so? But what saith the Scripture? Why, that God hath laughed all the heathen wisdom to scorn. It saith that twelve despised followers of a despised Master, all of whom were of no reputation, who were esteemed as the filth and offscouring of the world, did more good in it than all the tribes of Israel. It saith that the despised Master of these despised followers left a standing direction to us and to our children: ' Blessed are ye (not accursed with the heavy curse of doing no good; of being useless in the world,) when men shall revile you and persecute you, and say all manner of evil of you falsely for My name’s sake. Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad; for great is your reward in heaven.'

26. These are part of my reasons for choosing to abide (till I am better informed) in the station wherein God' has placed me. As for the flock committed, to your care, whom for many years you have diligently fed with the sincere milk of the Word, I trust in God your labor shall not be in vain, either to yourself or them: many of them the great Shepherd has by your hand delivered from the hand of the destroyer; some of whom are already entered into peace, and some remain unto this day. For yourself, I doubt not, but when your warfare is accomplished, when you are made perfect through sufferings, you shall come to your grave, not with sorrow, but as a ripe shock of corn, full of years and victories. And He that took care of the poor sheep before you was born will not forget them when you are dead..'

In his habits of order, account-keeping, and punctuality he was literally a "methodist." "Sammy," said he to his nephew, "be punctual. Whenever I am to go to a place the first thing I do is to get ready; then what time remains is all my own." In old age, as he stood waiting for his chaise at Haslingden, he remarked, "I have lost ten minutes, and they are lost forever."

Every minute had its value to him for work or rest. "Joshua, when I go to bed I go to bed to sleep, and not to talk," was his rebuke to a young preacher who once shared his room and wished to converse at sleeping time.

Dr. Johnson once said to Boswell: "John Wesley's conversation is good, but he is never at leisure. He is always obliged to go at a certain hour. This is very disagreeable to a man who loves to fold his legs and have his talk out, as I do. "On another occasion he said, "I hate to meet John Wesley; the dog enchants you with his conversation, and then breaks away to go and visit some old woman."

Yet Wesley was never hurried in mind or manner. "He had no time," says Henry Moore, "to mend anything that he either wrote or did. He therefore always did everything: not only with quietness, but with what might be thought slowness."

Wesley was a delightful companion, and his comrades on the road and friends in the home witness to his cheerfulness, courtesy, kindness, and wit, "Sour godliness is the devil's religion," was one of his sayings. He told Mr. Blackwell that he could not bear to have people about him who were in ill humor, and he did his best to cure them.

(From Chapter XX of "John Wesley the Methodist" by A Methodist Preacher, published by the Methodist Book Concern, New York, 1903.)

Alas, Aspasia! are you, indeed, convinced that I can be of any service to you? I fear you have not sufficient ground for such a conviction. Experience has shown how far my power is short of my will. For some time I flattered myself with the pleasing hope, but I grow more and more ashamed of having indulged it. You need not the support of so weak an hand. How can I possibly think you do (though that thought tries now and then still to obtrude itself) since you have so long and resolutely thrust it from you? I dare not, there­fore, blame you for so doing. Doubtless you acted upon cool reflection; you declined the trouble of writing, not because it was a trouble, but because it was a needless one. And if so, what injury have you done yourself? As for me, you could do me no injury by your silence. It did, indeed, deprive me of much pleasure, and of a pleasure from which I ought to have received much improvement. But still, as it was one I had no title to but your goodness, to withdraw it was no iniustice. I sincerely thank you for what is past; and may the God of my salvation return it sevenfold into your bosom: and if ever you should please to add to those thousand obliga­tions any new ones, I trust they shall neither be unrewarded by Him nor unworthily received by Aspasia's

Faithful friend and servant, CYRUS.

Araspes, too, hopes you will never have reason to tax him with ingratitude. Adieu!

[A letter given under September 24, 1736, and the Journal Diary for June 16, 1737, show that Wesley still kept up some correspondence with Miss Ann Granville. Miss Hamilton says that at Bulstrode on December 14, 1783 (Auto. and Corr. vi. 175) Mrs. Delany 'told me she had known the two Mr. Wesleys (the Methodist preachers); she knew them when they were young men. They lived near her sister when they were students at Oxford. They were of a serious turn, and associated with such as were so. These brothers joined some other young men at Oxford, and used to meet of a Sunday evening and read the Scriptures, and find out objects of charity to relieve. This was a happy beginning, but the vanity of being singular and growing enthu­siasts made them endeavor to gain proselytes and adopt that system of religious doctrine which many reasonable people thought pernicious.' On June 9, 1743, Mrs. Pendarves was married to Dr. Delany, who in May 1744 became Dean of Down; the deanery was worth £2,500 a year, and he had other preferments. He died at Bath on May 6, 1768, and Mrs. Delany on April 15, 1788. She was buried in a vault of St. James's, Piccadilly, where there is a tablet on one of the columns to her memory. She enjoyed the special friendship of George III and Queen Charlotte, and was described by Edmund Burke as ' the highest-bred woman in the world and the woman of fashion of all ages.' ' She was fond of drawing and painting and was a genuine lover of good music, including that unpopular Italian opera against which her master Hogarth had pointed his sharpest etching-needle.' See Austin Dobson's Side-walk Studies, p. 115; and for Miss Granville, the heading to letter of September 24, 1736.

An exquisite needlework pocket-book made by Mrs. Delany with a letter from Queen Charlotte to her was sold for £40 in December 1927.]

MANY authentic portraits, from Williams, in 1763, to Romney, in 1788, have given John Wesley's features to the world. His hazel eyes are said to have been bright and penetrating, even to the last. In youth his hair was black, and in old age silvery white. In height he was not quite five feet six inches, and he weighed one hundred and twenty-two pounds; his frame was well knit, muscular, and strong. He was scrupulously neat in his person and habits, and wore a narrow-plaited stock, a coat with a small upright collar, buckled shoes, and three-cornered hat. "I dare no more," he said in his old age, "write in a fine style than wear a fine coat." "Exactly so," remarks Overton, "but, then, he was particular about his coats. He was most careful never to be slovenly in his dress, always to be dressed in good taste. . . . It is just the same with his style; it is never slovenly, never tawdry."(From Chapter XX of "John Wesley the Methodist" by A Methodist Preacher, published by the Methodist Book Concern, New York, 1903.)

REVEREND SIR, -- I must earnestly beg your immediate advice in a case of the greatest importance. Above two years since, I was entrusted with a young gentleman of good sense, an even generous temper, and pretty good learning. [See letter of June 11, 1731, to his father. Wesley's anxiety about this student and also concerning Richard Morgan shows how faithfully he watched over them. At the end of July Charles Wesley tells his brother Samuel that John had spent the last week 'at London, chiefly in consulting Mr. Law about one of his pupils; but he found time, notwithstanding, to dispatch three sheets of Job while there, and still goes on with much more expedition than my father did while upon the spot.' This letter to Law evidently led to a personal consultation.] Religion he had heard little of; but Mr. Jackson's Practice of Devotion, [Lawrence Jackson (1691-1772), Fellow of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, 1716; Prebendary of Lincoln 1747.] your two treatises, and Thomas à Kempis, by the blessing of God, awakened him by degrees to a true notion and serious practice of it. In this he continued sensibly improving till last Lent; at the beginning of which I advised him to do as he had done the year before--viz. to obey the order of the Church, by using such a sort and measure of abstinence as his health permitted and his spiritual wants required. He said ' he did not think his health would permit to use that abstinence which he did the year before.' And, notwithstanding my reply, ' that his athletic habit could be in no danger by only abstaining from flesh and using moderately some less pleasing food,' he persisted in his resolution of not altering his food at all. A little before Easter, perceiving he had much contracted the time he had till then set apart for religious reading, I asked him whether he was not himself convinced that he spent too much time in reading secular authors. He answered he was convinced any time was too much, and that he should be a better Christian if he never read them at all. I then pressed him earnestly to pray for strength, according to that convic­tion; and he resolved to try for a week. When that was expired, he said his desire of classical reading was not inflamed, but a little abated; upon which I begged him to repeat his resolution for a week or two longer. He said it signified nothing; for he could never part with the classics entirely. I desired him to read what you say in the Christian Perfection on reading vain authors. He read it, agreed to every word of it, but still in his practice denied it; though appear­ing in most other particulars an humble, active, zealous Christian.

On Tuesday, April 3, being one of the days the statutes require us to communicate at St. Mary's, I called upon him just before church, being to set out for Lincolnshire as soon as the service was over. I asked whether he still halted between two opinions; and, after exhorting him as I could to renounce himself and serve his Master with simplicity, I left him. He did not communicate that day. On my return, May 21, I immediately inquired what state he was in, and found he had never communicated since, which he used to do weekly; that he had left off rising early, visiting the poor, and almost all religious reading, and entirely given himself up to secular. When I asked him why he had left off the holy eucharist, he said fairly, because to partake of it implied a fresh promise to renounce himself entirely and to please God alone; and he did not design to do so. I asked whether he was well convinced he ought to do so. He said, 'Yes.' Whether he wished he could design it. He answered, No, he did not design it.

From time to time, particularly a few days ago, I urged him to tell me upon what he grounded his hope of salvation. He replied, after some pause, that 'Christ died for all men; but if none were saved by Him without performing the conditions, His death would not avail one in a thousand, which was inconsistent with the goodness of God.' But this answer, and every part of it, he soon gave up; adding with the ut­most seriousness that he cared not whether it was true or no: he was very happy at present, and he desired nothing farther.

This morning I again asked him what he thought of his own state. He said he thought nothing about it. I desired to know whether he could, if he considered it ever so little, ex­pect to be saved by the terms of the Christian covenant. He answered, he did not consider it at all; nor did all I could say in the least move him. He assented to all, but was affected with nothing. He grants with all composure that he is not in a salvable state, and shows no degree of concern, while he owns he can't find mercy.

I am now entirely at a loss what step to take: pray he can't, or won't. When I lent him several prayers, he re­turned them unused, saying he does not desire to be other­wise than he is, and why should he pray for it? I do not seem so much as to understand his distemper. It appears to me quite incomprehensible. Much less can I tell what remedies are proper for it. I therefore beseech you, sir, by the mercies of God, that you will not be slack; according to the ability He shall give, to advise and pray for him and, reverend sir,

I never began a letter with so much confusion to anybody as I do this to Cyrus. I can't recollect that I ever used any one so ill {if my being silent may be called ill-usage), and at the same time must confess no one deserves it so little. What to do to extenuate my fault I do not know, which has truly been disadvantageous only to myself; did I not find it absolutely necessary to my conduct (in that part of my life which ought to be my greatest concern) to renew this correspondence, I own I am so overcome with shame for what is past that I should not dare to put you in mind of my un­worthiness.

I give you now an opportunity of showing your for­giveness and generosity; not that you want extraordinary occasions to set those qualities in a proper light. Is it not some degree of grace to own one's faults frankly? But do I not destroy all merit by supposing I have any? When I sate down to write I thought I could have acquitted myself better, but I find it impossible to say anything in my justification. What will avail my saying I have constantly had an esteem for you? You have no reason to suppose that I have so much as barely remembered you.

The more I con­sider the obligations I had to continue my correspondence with one who hath showed so many marks of an unfeigned desire to assist and promote my eternal happiness, the deeper is my concern for having forfeited so great an advantage.

I am so sincerely sorry for the ill impression I have given you of myself, that I shall shun you as a criminal would a judge; and whatever indulgence your good­ness may incline you to show me, I never shall imagine you can have any regard for one that has so ungratefully neglected your friendship. To tell you my engagements with the world have engrossed me, and occasioned my not writing to you, will be enlarging my condemnation. I must say one thing more: that my going to Longleat (where for some time I was much indisposed, and not very well able to write), and then removing to London to a new un­furnished house, put me into a great hurry. I waited for a leisure hour that I might write to you at large; till shame seized me so violently that I had not courage to write, but at last have broke through it, and choose to suffer any reproach rather than lose the advantage of your friendship, without at least regretting that I have brought this mortification on myself. I would desire my compli­ments to Araspes, but I fear they can't be acceptable from one that has behaved herself so ill to Cyrus. Adieu. Your happiness will ever be sincerely desired by

ASPASIA.

In four instances Wesley the friend became a lover before he made the fatal mistake of marrying one who proved unworthy of his affection. Miss Betty Kirkham, the sister of one of the earliest Oxford Methodists, was his first love. With her he corresponded in the curious stilted manner of the day--a style he afterward utterly forsook. In those first love letters he transformed prosaic Betty into the romantic "Varanese," just as in his later correspondence with Mrs. Pendarve (Delany) he named that lady "Aspasia," his brother Charles "Cyrus," and himself "Araspes." (from Chapter XX of "John Wesley the Methodist: a Plain Account of his Life and Work", By a Methodist Preacher, Published by The Methodist Book Concern, New York, 1903.

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John Wesley

About John Wesley

John Wesley was born in Epworth, 23 miles (37 km) northwest of Lincoln, the son of Samuel Wesley, a graduate of Oxford, and a minister of the Church of England and Susanna Annesley, twenty-fourth child of Dr. Samuel Annesley. In 1696 Samuel Wesley was appointed rector of Epworth, where John, their fifteenth child (of 19), was born.

At the age of six, John was rescued from the burning rectory. This escape made a deep impression on his mind; and he spoke of himself as a "brand plucked from the burning."